


build me up, buttercup

by pukner



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bards, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Parent Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Various OCs - Freeform, bards are violently social creatures, including runaway princesses, someone save her, they pack bond with anything, this is just yennefer being unceremoniously dragged into a found family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukner/pseuds/pukner
Summary: "This is my child," says Jaskier, with an entirely straight face, hand on Ciri's shoulder."And that...is...""My beautiful lover," says Jaskier, earnestly, "who I will soon make an honest woman out of."He canhearYennefer grinding her teeth.Or, post episode 6, Jaskier finds his tenure at Oxenfurt rudely interrupted by a Child Surprise and a witch, and becomes a family man. Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 502
Kudos: 1139





	1. prodigal son

**Author's Note:**

> no, I _don't_ know what I'm doing, thank you for asking! I've decided that canon is less established fact and more some loose suggestions for me to ignore as I please.

Jaskier spends roughly two days face-down on a lumpy mattress in an inn.

Or, more accurately, Jaskier cheerfully scribbles down notes from an account from some dwarves, tromps lightly down a mountain, bombasts his way into an inn and a small job playing lively tunes for the night, and then climbs up to his room and falls face down on the bed. And just. Doesn't get up.

He still smiles brightly at the sweet girl who comes up with the bath and wine, tips her with his dwindling gold and tells the innkeep that he'd like to stay another night and play some more. He still manages to write a song---a bitter, angry song, but a song, nonetheless.

He is still Jaskier.

Jaskier spends roughly two days mourning a decades-long friendship. He _does_ cry, despite his long-held policy on never crying over an affair ended, but well.

He and Geralt, they weren't an affair, were they? It was Jaskier who fell head over ass over teakettle in love, who sang songs and prepared baths and made eyes at him. They never even kissed. Geralt would never have wanted him like that, he barely even wanted him as a friend. _Didn't_ even want him as a friend, it turned out.

Sometimes, though, the way he'd looked at him, eyes soft and golden and---

Nope! Bury that _right now_.

Anyway, Jaskier spends two days crying and then proceeds to spring right back. He goes downstairs and plays his songs and ends on an angry, bitter note that garners cheers and coin and he smiles bright and joyful through it all.

And then he keeps moving. 

* * *

here is a secret:

Buttercups are bright and happy and grow like weeds, and they are just a little poisonous, if you touch them wrong. 

Jaskier is a man who chose his name, chose the way he built himself. He will be fucking _damned_ if he changes that now. 

* * *

He ends up in Oxenfurt.

He actually has very little recollection of how this happened. 

"A professor," he says, dubiously.

"You'll be _fine_ , Julian," says Irene, a hurricane of a woman who is partially responsible for his ending up here. In an office, still in his travelling clothes and smelling faintly of the hay and manure that they'd both fallen into that morning.

"I've taught a few classes, yes, but I don't know about--"

Irene, from where she's frantically rummaging through several sheaths of paper, interrupts with, "There should be a spare dress under that desk, Julian, could you--?"

"--yes, here you go, but _listen,_ I truly don't know if I'm qualified--"

She straightens and hastily shucks her clothes off, which derails Jaskier a little because as a friend, he's contractually obligated to whistle at her appreciatively. She sniggers and winks at him, as she pulls her hair out of her rat's nest of a braid and sets about redoing it.

"Let me help with that," he offers.

"Ugh, thanks," she says, distractedly. He scoots over and proceeds to gently comb through her wild red curls, as she shuffles through the papers she's accumulated.

"I'm putting you down for a lecture tonight," she says, "and you can decide if you want the job or not afterward---ow, not too hard--that'll give you enough time to settle in--"

"At the inn," he says, firmly, "Not the staff quarters."

"Hmm, _fine_ , I'll meet you there after my classes. _Fuck_ , why'd we cut it so close," she mourns, "I'm too hungover to read my own lesson notes."

"We got distracted by that festival," he said, drily, "And then you and your merry band decided to kidnap me."

It wasn't a kidnapping, technically. Bards are just _like_ that. 

One day, Jaskier had been merrily travelling through the woods outside some town, and found several of his old colleagues playing a nonsensical drinking game that involved making up lyrics and fortune cards and also, strangely, stripping. He'd, of course, joined in. 

The next thing he knew, he'd lost a week to revelry, he was three towns over, and he was _much_ richer than he started off. And in the middle of it all, during a lively festival and a performance in the town square he didn't recall agreeing to, someone remembered that the start of term was in exactly one day.

What proceeded was a mad dash to Oxenfurt, and Jaskier was so swept up in it all that he'd genuinely forgotten he didn't go there anymore.

And now here he was. He'd honestly forgotten how profoundly chaotic academics could be.

"Whatever," says Irene, as Jaskier gently pats her finished braid, "could you pass me those oils, I need to _try_ and smell less offensive--"

"I think you smell lovely," he says, doing as she says.

"That tendency to bullshit is _exactly_ what we need in a lecturer," she says, cheerily, and Jaskier barks out a laugh.

She turns to him, and gently kisses him on the cheek. Her eyes are a bright green, framed by fine laugh lines and wrinkles that---hm. He has no idea when that had happened. It jars him, throws him off the familiar rhythm of their banter for a moment. 

"Seriously," she says, smiling bright and wicked, "We'd love to have you, _Master Jaskier_. Also, how do I look?"

Jaskier feels strange, like he's missed a step climbing the stairs. He feels out of place, like a puzzle piece slotted into a picture it doesn't belong in. 

There are wrinkles around Irene's mouth, and something about this makes him dizzy.

"You've forgotten to put your dress on," he informs her, gravely.

"Wait, _shit,_ help me get the buttons on--"

* * *

Oxenfurt is where Jaskier was born. 

It's, more accurately, where _Julian Alfred Pancratz_ was born.

 _Julian_ was decided by the roll of a dice, one among seven or so others. He might have easily been Richmond or Henrik or William. _Alfred_ was Irene's idea--- _they all have at least five extra names, honestly---_

Pancratz was easy. He has roughly a billion cousins, and absolutely no one would be surprised that someone somewhere had spawned a bastard with the audacity to cling to the family name. He'd wanted to discard it, but there's something about a vaguely recognisable noble name that just eased things along. 

Oxenfurt is where Jaskier made himself. Built himself out of songs and laughter and callouses from lute-strings and love and love and love--

It was in this exact tavern, actually. 

The Three Little Bells still has that sweet, humming glow of _home_. It has not changed, in all the years that Jaskier has spent prancing across the continent with his lute. It's still loud and lovely, still a haven in the heart of the city's cobblestone streets, 

He walks in through the door, and he's immediately enveloped in laughter and young voices, the strum of instruments bring tuned and someone arguing over some theory.

Over there, in the corner, occupied by eight or so sleep-deprived youths all huddled around several books and drinks, is the exact table where Julian Alfred Pancratz was born. Cinna and Roland and their clever forgery, Essi and Irene and Finnegan all helping him gather the money for forged papers and University fees. The beginnings of a life, forged in friendship and laughter and paper and carefully managed coin.

He stops, for a moment, and takes it all in.

He's broken out of his reminiscing by a joyful shout of, "Well, if it isn't the great _Master Jaskier!"_

Deidre, the proprietor's daughter, is behind the bar and waving him over. He beams at her and rushes forward, laughing, "My _dear,_ how I've missed you! All the beauties across the Continent couldn't hold a candle to your smile!"

He knows how this will go. He's circled back here once or twice, when he and Geralt would inevitably separate. It always goes exactly like this; She will blush and slap his shoulder, and ask him to play in exchange for a room, and he will insist on paying regardless.

He will tune his lute and sing about his latest endeavors, and he will recognise someone from the crowd. Maybe a friend, maybe a colleague, maybe a student of someone he knows. He'll loudly invite them forward, and they'll confer in whispers before playing something together, pulling the whole establishment into song. 

He'll get paid, and spend most of it on ale and friends. This time, he'll have a lecture hall waiting for him, has a rough idea of what he wants to say and intends on bullshitting it brilliantly. He doesn't know how that will go, but he knows he'll come back here and maybe spend more hours in firelight and music. Or maybe he'll be tired, and go up to familiar rooms and a bath and pass the fuck out.

He feels very much like he's come home.

* * *

here is a secret:

Jaskier takes the job. He always intended on doing so, in the back of his head, at least. 

here is another:

Exactly no one is surprised.

* * *

The bustle of University life (as a professor! fancy that!) swallows him almost immediately, enough that he almost forgets Geralt.

Almost.

"You _really_ travelled with a _Witcher?"_ asks one of his favourites, a brilliant student that Jaskier has honestly considered strangling with his lute strings.

" _Really,_ Geoffrey," Jaskier says, his smile very carefully light and easy, "When I said I'd take questions, however, I meant things related to my _lesson_ . _"_

He says this, but there are already several hands shooting up and he's willing to bet the rest of his lecture that it isn't about the use of musical motifs in constructing a ballad.

"Is your lute really elven-make?" 

"Is it true he fought a dragon?"

"Did you really fuck a siren and get a bastard that was so wild and murderous that it had to be killed? And that's why you're here, to escape the grief?"

A beat.

"... _what_ ," says Jaskier, torn between horror and amusement.

Someone else smacks the last speaker, a girl with a mop of dark curls, upside the head, and whispers loudly, "You can't just _ask_ people that!"

"You really can't," Jaskier agrees, "Imagine if it were true! I'd be _very_ upset. The lute is right, though, and no comment on the dragon thing. Where are you lot even hearing all this?"

Shrugs and murmurs, and someone says, "Could you sing one of your Witcher songs, Master Jaskier? Not Toss A Coin--"

Jaskier feels that familiar pang, and keeps smiling. Don't falter.

He lets them clamour and plead, bright and young and ravenous for knowledge. He aches for them, suddenly, these fresh-faced little scholars who will tumble out into the world's maw with shining eyes and the hubris of minor gods. He remembers, and he aches.

They want his songs because they're wild and different, a discordant twang in the orchestra of stuffy scholars. He loves them, loves this haughty greed for knowledge they have, untarnished by anything.

They all cheer when he picks up his lute.

It almost makes up for the ache in his chest.

* * *

a secret: 

"He went to school with Professor Corvin? That's insane, he looks--"

"Right? I asked her and she just told me he moisturises."

another: 

Diedre isn't the _daughter_ of the proprietor anymore. Her father died five years ago, and she took over long before that. She has a son, nearly grown.

Her hair is more grey than black, her dark skin wrinkled and aged. He does not understand how this happened. He remembers coming to Oxenfurt, fresh and terrified and green, and seeing her still hiding shyly behind her mother's skirts. At least five years younger, he's sure.

He looks, he thinks absently, about as old as her son.

He still kisses her hand, and tells her she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. The rhythm of this has not changed, at least. And the one time her husband (husband!) looks disgruntled by this, Jaskier simply flirts with him, too.

* * *

Jaskier grades papers and gives lectures and sings and composes poetry and drinks with his new colleagues and puts off moving into his staff quarters, and buries Witchers and adventure and the giddy joy of the open road in the back of his mind.

He smiles, bright and carefree. He lets Oxenfurt swallow him. 

This is a new chapter of his life, he decides. The Bard Jaskier, Traveller and Companion of the White Wolf, that was--that was just a chapter, a stanza in his song. The world will not stop turning just because he feels bereft of Geralt of Rivia. He will reinvent himself! Professor Julian, Master Bard. 

He will build himself anew. He is good at that. Buttercups grow nearly everywhere. They are bright and lovely and hard to kill.

It is possible that Jaskier is so profoundly caught up in murdering stupid, lovelorn Jaskier The Travelling Bard, that his brain just---doesn't register Yennefer when he sees her.

He is humming an awfully infectious tune, composed by one of his students, and swinging into The Three Little Bells ("Get off my _arse,_ Irene, I'll move out soon!") when Diedre calls him over. 

He sees them--a woman, rich fabrics and dark eyes, and a girl in a cloak-- huddled at a table by the far wall, and his eyes sort of skip over them. 

"There's a woman and a little girl looking for you," she tells him, leaning in as she wipes a glass, "Asked for Jaskier the bard. I told them you'd be in by sundown, because you've apparently decided that you live here."

"I have _not!"_ he laughs, "Did Irene put you up to this? One might think you're getting tired of me, Deidre darling!"

She swats him away, and points out the pair in the corner.

He freezes.

Yennefer of Vengerberg is looking back at him, eyebrow raised.

For a moment, he considers simply bolting for the door. He could maybe make it, before she holds out a dainty hand and strikes him dead. And honestly, even if she does, he'd be fine. Dead people don't have to deal with terrifying sorceresses.

But alas, he doesn't want poor, lovely Diedre to witness his gruesome demise, and so he steels himself and walks over, pasting on a wide smile.

"Yennefer! What brings you to darken my door on this fine eve? Mayors to ensorcel, men to crush and bend to you will?" he says jauntily, pulling out the chair and taking a seat.

 _"Professor?"_ she says, instead of literally anything else, "You're a _teacher?"_

"Uh," he says, "yes? I have a job, yes?"

She hums. She still looks perfect, but also. Worn. Exhausted, in a bone-deep sort of way. The girl has her face hidden, huddled up against Yennefer's body like she's seeking refuge.

"Yennefer," he asks again, slowly, "why are you--"

Wordlessly, she reaches over and pulls back the girl's hood, just enough that he can see her face. His mouth subsequently stops working.

"Hello, Mister Jaskier," says Princess Cirilla, quietly.

"...oh," says Jaskier.


	2. bards will pack-bond with anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did," says little Ciri, after a moment, "did you just offer to adopt me?"
> 
> "Er," says Jaskier, "Knee-jerk reaction? I panicked."
> 
> _"You adopt people when you're panicked?"_
> 
> "...it sounds bad when you say it like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, it's been roughly ten years, you can boo me if you like. But consider this: everything is garbage and my brain is mush. The world is ending. I left home and shit. 
> 
> But I'm genuinely so excited to get back into writing this! I hope this chapter is coherent and not just a vaguely thematic word salad.
> 
> also I have so many ocs, but in my defense I'm populating a city and jaskier Insists on being a social creature

"... we'll have to dye your hair," says Jaskier, after several beats of dead silence, "Maybe cut it? Your clothes are fine, it won't garner too much attention, half the people here dress like they're going to a bloody ball when they attend classes--and the other half have been in the same clothes for roughly a week, that's the magic of Oxenfurt, really! One of my students has been showing up in a little jester's costume and I'm actually afraid that it might be the only thing she owns---"

"Bard," says Yennefer, impatiently.

"---I wonder if old Bren Roland's still doing his thing? Because if so I have a way to get you some papers---"

" _ Bard _ ," says Yennefer, again, but Jaskier's having a little difficulty processing the situation and so keeps careening down whatever spiral this is as though she hasn't spoken. It isn’t his fault, really, he’s just like this.

"I can pass you off as a bastard, probably, people will be expecting that, maybe you can be my angry lover, Yennefer--"

" _ Jaskier _ ," says Yennefer.

Jaskier stops.

They look at one another. And Jaskier looks at her,  _ really _ looks. 

She still looks perfect. Worm, exhausted, but perfect. But somehow, if he looks for long enough, he sees burns, smells something like fire, cracked skin and the smell of boiling blood--

Jaskier blinks, and it is gone. And she's just Yennefer, perfect but exhausted by possibly weeks on the road, looking at him with annoyance.

"Did," says little Ciri, after a moment, "did you just offer to adopt me?"

"Er," says Jaskier, still looking Yennefer dead in the eye, which is actually making his palms start to sweat a little, "Knee-jerk reaction? I panicked."

_ "You adopt people when you're panicked?"  _ and her raspy, tired little voice sounds amused, on the verge of laughter now. 

"...it sounds bad when you say it like that," Jaskier admits, and turns to smile at her. Then, breathes in, turns to the woman staring at him almost like she's carefully parsing through his soul  _ (wait, fuck, she can actually do that). _

"Why are you here, Yennefer?"

* * *

here is a secret:

Oxenfurt is a strange city, by most measures.

There's an unspoken law, of sorts, that Jaskier couldn't name if you asked him to. In Oxenfurt, you could plumb depths of academia one couldn't in other institutes, live as you could never in another part of the Continent.  _ Love _ as you never could. 

The world is strange and cruel to some, and even within the city limits, the law  _ doesn't _ care and you  _ will _ find that same cruelty because you can't really escape it, but. 

It's safer than most. 

Here, boys who weren't boys by most measures could walk in with a name under their tongues and build themselves. You could be directed to a tavern and to an older man who'd vouch for you and call you  _ little brother _ , find people who sound and live and love the same as you.

  
  
  


here is another:

It is, truly, nearly a habit for Jaskier to claim some as family. 

He'd learned, during his time as a student, that sometimes drunks will lay off a girl if you storm up demanding they get off your  _ baby sister,  _ and sometimes a street vendor might not beat a tiny thief if you claim that he's your son. There are advantages, after all, to being a man. 

And he'd come by it honestly, too.

He'd watched his friends and professors do the same, a habit of sorts, because the world is vast and dangerous for someone wandering it alone. Irene telling an administrator that he was her baby cousin once, because his background was under scrutiny; old Professor Faulk telling someone he knew young Julian as a boy; all of them collectively building an entire false family tree of themselves for little Essi; several people claiming to be the same underclassman’s husband until the whole thing had gotten comedically out of hand--

See someone vulnerable, give them a leg up. Not everyone will, but you can. 

A runaway princess isn't quite the same as a girl hiding from an enraged man who won't take no for an answer, but honestly? Same principle.

* * *

  
  


"This...is your child," says Irene, slowly.

"This is my child," says Jaskier, with an entirely straight face, hand on Ciri's shoulder. 

"And that...is..."

"My beautiful lover," says Jaskier, earnestly, "who I will soon make an honest woman out of."

He can  _ hear _ Yennefer grinding her teeth. 

Irene looks between them with bemusement, and says, still very slowly, "You're telling me  _ you _ spawned that child, and she birthed her?"

_ "Absolutely," _ he says, looking her dead in the eye. He will carefully not think about how this might be affecting Yennefer--- she walked into this willingly. He’s thinking even less about the fact that Irene looks like she’s doing the absolute  _ most  _ to keep a straight face.

"Of course," she sighs, "this makes perfect sense."

"And that's why I need bigger rooms!" he says, brightly. 

"I'm signing you up for a five-year contract," says Irene.

"...and a raise?"

_ "If _ you take on the first-years," she says, firmly, and Jaskier throws his head back and groans, loudly. And with Valdo teaching this year, too. Just lovely.

Ciri, who is still pale-haired and almost comically different from the two adults bracketing her, sniggers under her breath. Irene smiles at her, kindly. 

"Ugh,  _ fine _ ," he says, "But I won't work with Marx. "

"Deal," she says, which is nice of her. She’s absolutely lying, but it’s a nice gesture.

She then pauses, and lowers her voice a bit before saying, “You might want to colour her hair, Julian."

Both Yennefer and Ciri freeze. Jaskier lets out a sheepish sort of giggle.

"...We haven't got round to it yet."

* * *

"We need a place to stay," said Yennefer of Vengerberg, in the corner of the tavern he'd built his life in. Two disparate halves of his life, colliding in a manner so jarring that Jaskier was left dizzy with it. 

"Yes, I'd already jumped to that conclusion--"

"Geralt's missing," she said, and his stomach was suddenly leaden, the blood in his veins cold, “Nilfgaard has him, we barely managed to get away.”

"...what," he said, weakly.

"I heard of you teaching here,” she said, quietly, “Took a minute to connect you to Julian Alfred Pancratz, but, well. I need somewhere to recover--”

Jaskier leaned forward, and hissed, in a whisper that was just short of shrill, “ _ Recover?  _ And are we just going to gloss over Geralt being  _ missing?” _

“My magic,” her mouth twisted into a disdainful sort of scowl, “is out of my reach for the time being. I need rest, and Oxenfurt is well-known for giving sanctuary---not to mention the fact that winter’s almost upon us and we’d rather not make the trek to Kaer Morhen, under the circumstances.” 

Her face softened, just a bit, as she added, “Geralt’s situation is being handled by his brothers.”

“...Fuck,” said Jaskier, with feeling. Ciri nodded in sage agreement of the sentiment, which prompted Yennefer to quirk the corner of her mouth upwards in what _may_ have been a _real_ _smile._

Jaskier felt like he was going to have a stroke.

“Right,” he sighed, “I’ll have Diedre bring us some dinner, and then we can go over logistics. We can forge you some papers in about a week, I think, though it’ll likely cost me a bit--”

Yennefer blinked, and said, “Just like that?”

“What?” A pause, and then, “Did you think I’d turn you both away?” That hurt, actually. 

Jaskier’s halfway to offended when she says, “Well--Geralt mentioned you had a bit of a tiff.”

He very carefully does not think about that, or the sad little part of his heart that is constantly composing love poems about eyes like honey and hair like spilt moonlight, and says, “Well, you’re not Geralt, are you? Not to mention, there’s no way I could pass him off as my illegitimate daughter.”

Ciri snorted.

“I _ refuse _ to be your illegitimate daughter,” Yennefer said, flatly, “I have to be at least twice your age.”

“No,” Jaskier said, bypassing the age remark entirely because he doesn’t want to unpack  _ that  _ today, “You will be my beloved wife! My paramour! My co-parent!”

“What,” said Yennefer, clearly thrown.

“This is  _ amazing _ ,” said Ciri, with visible glee.

* * *

  
  


Roland, as it turns out,  _ is _ still doing their thing.

"It's  _ they _ , by the way," says the person who made Julian real, all clever forgery and a knack for bribery, "Neither-nor."

"Cinna won the pot, I see," Jaskier says, deeply unsurprised. He sidesteps a pile of books in the labyrinth that is their office. It's musty and vaguely claustrophobic, filled to the brim with paper and ink and maps and library books overdue by at least a decade. A few glass bottles dot the room, half-filled with dirty paint-water, an assortment of brushes sticking out of it---Cinna's work spilling into the room.

Ciri is looking around at the place with barely-disguised fascination, sorely out of place in her expensive cloak.

"Did you lot have a bet going about  _ my gender _ with my sweet beloved spouse," they say, all bluster and thinly veiled delight. They push their spectacles up their nose, in a move that tugs at something in Jaskier's chest, as old as their friendship.

"For  _ decades _ ," he tells them, watching their eyes crinkle as they grin, "you sure took your sweet fucking time."

"You're all terrible," they say, leafing through several papers scattered over their desk, "Little Fiona, did you know your father is terrible? Awful man, really, can't believe I was in love with him once."

Ciri, who had been peering curiously at a jar containing a very well preserved scorpion, turns and says,  _ "Were _ you?"

"We spent two weeks convinced we were soulmates," Jaskier informs her.

"We were insufferable," Roland says, gravely. Then, "Aha! Here it is---Sign here, Fiona Pancratz! I just need a minute to get everything sorted out and you'll be a  _ legal person! _ "

"Er," says Ciri, and proceeds to actually read the document in front of her.

"Oh, that's new," Roland says, mildly surprised, "Don't usually get someone reading the fine print. Won't have her soul stolen by a suspicious looking fiddler, this one."

"She  _ is _ my child," Jaskier says, oozing a pride he has absolutely no right to. 

"Yes, that's why I'm so shocked. It makes perfect sense that she's adopted, though."

"No!" Jaskier says, a bit frantic, "Biological! This child is my flesh and blood!"

Roland looks incredulous. Ciri keeps reading, intent. 

"You," Roland says.

"...me," says Jaskier.

Roland eyes him, and he smiles back, winningly.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" says Ciri, a little absently, "Your other friend said the same thing."

There's a short pause, and Jaskier coughs into his fist. 

"Your father," says Roland, "is full of  _ shite. _ Also, might take longer to fix up the biological papers, I assumed he'd be taking you on as a ward, and prepared accordingly. _ " _

"I could do that legally!"

"You really can't," Roland says, and Jaskier realizes belated that oh. He can't. Ah, well.

Ciri eyes them both searchingly. And announces, "I'm done reading, thank you. Shall I sign as Fiona Pancratz?"

"Throw a few middle names in there," Roland advises, "That's what we did for old Julian here. Rolled a dice for it."

Ciri blinks, and turns to Jaskier. Opens her mouth, and is promptly cut off by Jaskier saying, brightly, "What about Julia? You look like a Julia! Or a Miriam? A sturdy old Daisy?"

"I like Yolanda," Roland says dreamily, taking the paper from Ciri and looking around for a pencil. Citi watches the process with fascination, likely because there is one tucked behind their ear, tangled in flyaway grey hair.

(When had the red faded from their hair? When--)

"You  _ would," _ says Jaskier, drily. And then, "I bet on something woman-adjacent, by the way."

"Oh, that's interesting. Any particular reason?" They've found their pencil---another one entirely, the one in their hair completely forgotten. 

"Roland, you did drag for all of your thirties. You went by Yolanda as much as you did Bren."

"...wait," they say, looking up. They look like they're having a revelation, the slow dawn of some realization crossing their face, "Wait, I  _ did!  _ That should've been--- how did I not figure it out  _ then--- _ "

"We were  _ so _ close to holding an intervention, but Cinna said you needed to take your time," he informs them.

"Drag?" says Ciri, curiously. 

Roland looks at her, and then at him. 

"I'll show you," he tells her, "It's wonderful, I promise. All the best bards are a little bit into drag."

"Decades! I was oblivious for decades!"

Ciri says, "Yolanda?"

"After their dear old mum," says Jaskier, "My name was Dandelion!"

Ciri, completely uncomprehending, says, "It suits you. Also, I think I might be an Elena, middle-name-wise."

"Excellent! Elena! Elegance!" Roland crows, "Any other middle names? Go wild!"

"...Juniper?"

"Fiona Elena Juniper Pancratz! Wonderful! Incredible! A name to command armies!"

"Let's not," says Jaskier, glancing at Ciri as she makes a face like she'd swallowed a lemon. 

They watch as Roland bustles about, occasionally creaking and complaining about shitty bones and how they're the first of their lot to really get  _ old.  _ Midway through this, they fish an ancient kettle out from gods-know-where, and serve them some  _ profoundly _ bitter tea.

Cinna shows about an hour or two into this, dark hair all bundled into twin buns on either side of zir head, shawl drawn tight around boney shoulders. 

Ze swings in, kisses Roland on the cheek, before rounding on Jaskier.

"Julian Alfred Pancratz! You absolute  _ fucker _ , you've been in town for  _ months _ , and you only drop by so you can  _ legitimise your spawn?" _

"I had classes!" he pleads, ducking the swinging basket, which smells pleasantly of bread, "Irene's been working me to the bone!"

"I ought to string you up, you two-oren whore!" ze hisses, lunging forward to grapple him. Jaskier attempts to escape this, but only ends up toppling off the pile of books he's been using as a chair, and falling along with a small body that is at least forty percent skirt.

"I'd like to think he's worth more than two orens," says Ciri, mildly. 

Jaskier lets out an indignant yelp, and Roland cackles from their work station. Cinna does  _ not _ release the deathgrip ze has on Jaskier's throat to peer up at Ciri, and says, "Oh, she's lovely. I like her."

"I...can't breathe."

"Good."

"My name's Fiona," says Ciri, cheerily, "Please don't kill my father, I've just got him."

"You don't really need him once you've got the papers," Cinna says, in a conspiring tone, "You can just grab his legitimacy and run."

"You have a point," says Ciri, tapping a finger against her chin thoughtfully.

Jaskier groans. Perhaps introducing Ciri to his friends had been a mistake.

* * *

  
  


here is a secret: 

"I'm preparing papers for your lover, too," says Roland cheerily, with no prompting. "No extra charge."

_ "Absolutely _ extra charge, I'm not letting you do that for free--"

  
  


here is another:

Yenna Roland, say the papers. Daughter of Yolanda and Joseph Roland. Sister of Bren Roland, it doesn't say. Sister-in-law of Cinna Desmond. 

See someone vulnerable, give them a leg up. Not everyone can. But maybe you can. You don't need to love them, or know them, or even meet them.

Hand in hand in hand. The world is cruel to some. You can change that, just a little.

* * *

  
  


Yennefer looks up as the bard walks into their new living quarters with Ciri. 

It's a modest place, but better than most; two rooms and a kitchen, a separate little room for bathing. Fully furnished, painted in light greens and blues. The windows open to the bustle and noise of Oxenfurt, just overlooking the university itself. 

She was leaning against the window, having unpacked their possessions, when they both spill inside, laughing. 

"Yen!" Ciri says, brightly, "Look at my hair! Julian's friend Cinna did it for me!"

She's more vibrant now than she has been in weeks, laughter spilling out of her, bouncing on her feet. Beside her, Jaskier stands sheepishly running a dark-stained hand through his hair. 

Ciri's own hair, true to what they'd agreed, is a lovely dark brown, almost black. It's also been woven carefully around her head into an intricate crown of braids, dotted with what looks like small flowers. She's carrying a basket in her hands, a loaf of bread peeking out of the cloth it's bundled up in. Her cloak has been discarded at some point, and the hem of her dress is dusty.

She doesn't look like a princess, with a kingdom and a destiny on her shoulders. She looks...like a girl. Just a girl, ordinary and happy, after a day about the town.

Yennefer feels strange about it. 

(Yennefer has never been afforded the luxury of being  _ just a girl. _ She is suddenly, fiercely glad that Ciri might get that, even if it is fleeting.)

"Roland finished our papers for us," says Ciri, walking over to a table and unpacking her little basket, "And also we got bread and some jam. And Julian got strangled. Which apparently happens a lot."

Yennefer snorts. "I believe it," she says.

"I barely made it out with my life!"

"Pity."

Ciri giggles. 

Jaskier makes a great show of looking broken-hearted, even as he hands a sheaf of papers to her.

She looks them over, while Jaskier and Ciri set the table up, and doesn't think about how easily she's fallen into this domesticity. It's been three days, for fuck's sake.

She frowns.

"I admit I'm not certain how these things work," she says, drily, "But surely inventing a whole family for me is overkill?"

Jaskier doesn't even look up from where he's slicing into the bread, as he replies, "Oh, those are real people. Roland's your brother now, congratulations."

"... _ what _ ," says Yennefer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sweats] please tell me if characterization is bad I'm so scared


	3. enter valdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does anyone," says Jaskier, definitely despairingly, "have questions about the lesson? Just one? Please?"
> 
> Silence, strangely judgmental. He sighs.
> 
> "I'm going to marry her!" Jaskier says, throwing up his hands in defeat, "And my daughter's name is Fiona, no you cannot meet her, yes she is very cute."
> 
> A chorus of cooing and cheers. Jaskier briefly considers giving up the bardic arts and becoming a cobbler or something. Maybe a farmer. He'd be a good farmer. He likes horses.
> 
>  _Can't wait for the wedding,_ signs the boy Jaskier hadn't adopted yet.
> 
> "You aren't invited," he replies, flatly, "None of you are invited. I'm going to elope. I'm also giving you all failing grades for your last essay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my life is just one happening after another and I'm very tired please come talk to me @ buttrecups on tumblr I just made a sideblog because I'm sick and tired of being percieved

Jaskier debuted his first real song (as _Jaskier_ ) at the Three Little Bells, before he even enrolled. He wasn't even Julian yet, was barely a person with nothing but rage and stolen clothes and a lute he'd won in a bet and _just barely_ learned to play. 

It was a jaunty, viciously upbeat little song about seeing a little girl in the mirror and dragging her out by the hair, and joyfully beating her to death in front of everyone who loves her. He'd got the whole tavern on their feet and clapping along, a simple rhythm that he'd punctuated by stomping his feet to the beat. He'd been unpolished and barely melodic, raw and angry and joyful.

He'd been exhausted, just having arrived at the city he'd pinned all his dreams on, and heard the proprietor--- dear old Percy Geld, Deirdre's father--- announce that they needed some music and entertainment for the night. The stage, so to speak, was up for grabs.

And Jaskier has, if nothing else, always been two hands grasping for whatever purchase he can find. 

He'd scrambled forward on legs still trembling from exhaustion, and offered himself up. Eyes bright, teeth gritted. Beautiful and hard to kill. 

This song would not have gone over well anywhere other than here. 

But here, in this tavern in the corner of a city where you could drag yourself out of a mirror and beat your old face to death in front of a crowd, it garnered wild applause. A girl walked up to him afterward and _demanded_ to know why she'd never seen him perform this well in classes, almost outraged.

He'd blinked, still coming down from the high of tearing out his heart and showing it to an audience and have them sing along, and said, "I--I don't actually go here? Not yet, I haven't got enrolled and I don't know how I'll pay the fees--"

This only offended her further, "That's _ridiculous_ , you _have_ to become a bard, anything else would be a fucking tragedy. I know someone, come on."

And she'd grabbed his hand, this girl he's never even met, and dragged him to a corner table occupied by a gaggle of similarly aged people. Towards becoming Julian, towards everything that came after.

He and Irene have been bound by some invisible thread of fate ever since. Jaskier can see it if he squints, silvery and smelling of watered down ale. 

Oh, they'll wander apart, feet ever roaming the paths and where their muses will take them.

But some part of him will always be here; hand in stranger's hand, knees knocking with excitement and exhaustion and something _else,_ the taste of future on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

Their first night in the same living space is, to say the least, an _experience_.

At the inn, it wasn't a problem; Jaskier paid for their rooms and fell face-first in his own bed and that was that. The day after was much the same, running to and fro between classes and settling things with Irene. And the Dean, who'd sighed gustily and tiredly informed him that they'd had his rooms ready for _months_ , and that it was about fucking time. 

But once they got the apartment, and their papers, and Jaskier has fielded away several questions along the line of _what the do you mean you have a child and a lover, can we meet them, oh you must bring them around tonight, wait then what the fuck was Her Sweet Kiss about---_

Well that's a whole other kettle of fish then, isn't it? 

Ciri promptly settles herself in one of the rooms, the one with the window overlooking the Academy gardens, leaving her "parents" to flounder about in her wake.

"I can take the floor," Jaskier blurts out, around the last mouthful of dinner. He says this at the exact same time as Yennefer, only she says, "I'll stay with her."

This prompts the both of them to pause and look at one another for a moment. Yennefer squinting with judgement, Jaskier frozen like a deer locking eyes with a hunter.

"Or," says Jaskier, slowly, "We---we could sleep together?"

 _"What,"_ she says, dangerously. Every line of her body has tensed, and her jaw has locked. Jaskier is suddenly, terrifyingly aware of how easy he is to kill. 

"I mean! Share the bed! It's a big bed, the Dean likes me even though I'm a pain in his ass and I think they sprang for a better living space because they're trying to seduce me into actually staying for longer than a semester this time, which is absurd, I have a real biological child to raise now, and travelling around might not be the best---"

"Dear gods," Yennefer cuts him off with a groan, "do you ever shut _up?"_

Which, rude. Jaskier's just a nervous talker. And a happy talker. And a sad talker. And an angry talker. And a sleep talker. And---hm, she might actually have a point, there.

"To be fair, I'm paid to not shut up," is what he says instead. She gives him a long-suffering sort of look, but her shoulders have eased up a bit. Which further emboldens him to flash her a winning smile.

"Sharing a bed will also help sell the ruse, if that's anything," he adds, "And I promise I'll keep to my side, I'm a very polite sleeper."

Yennefer gives him a look he can't decipher. He feels strangely perceived. She has striking eyes, and he finds himself floundering a bit.

"...also it'll be good to give Ciri her space?" he says, weakly.

"Hm," she says. 

Clearly _someone's_ been spending too much time with Geralt, says a small part of his brain. The other part is trying very hard to get back to functional levels. This is so much eye contact. There is so much of it, and it is very intense. Jaskier feels like a butterfly being pinned.

"You're right," she says, after an excruciating pause, "She's a young lady, and she needs her space. Any _funny business_ , however, and I will eviscerate you."

Jaskier puts a hand over his heart, and says, solemnly, "I assure you my lady, I reserve the funny business for when I'm paid for it."

She gives him another Look. 

"...I just realized what that sounds like--- I mean because I'm a bard," he says, flushing, and she snorts. "You know, bards are funny? And I get paid? It's a business? I don't--- I'm making it worse, aren't I?"

"Your words, bard, not mine."

He sighs. She's not quite smiling, but there's mirth in the way she's regarding him. Something in his chest flutters.

(Shelve that for now, Jaskier. Don't want to unpack that one today.)

At any rate, they end up sharing a bed.

* * *

here is a secret, and you must take this to your grave:

Yennefer of Vengerberg _snores_.

here is another:

Jaskier finds this unspeakably endearing. Shelve that away now, old boy. 

* * *

Jaskier's classes the next day are, predictably, a _disaster_.

He had a peaceful morning. Cloyingly, terrifyingly domestic; made breakfast whilst bickering with the woman who held the heart of the man he loves, laughing with the child whose destiny was winding around his feet and pulling him closer. Downed a staggering amount of coffee, black and awful, because he'd forgotten about milk and also he'd stayed up for a long time listening to Yennefer snore.

He doesn't know why, but he wanted to cry. This sunlit morning, the butter he'd spread on the bread he'd got from Cinna, the way Yennefer had spent a solid five minutes insulting his hair while Ciri giggled into her hand. It's. 

It's so much. He doesn't know what it's so much _of_ , but.

At any rate, the sweet peace of the morning was merely a set up from the gods for a horrible, _horrible_ punch-line.

"PROFESSOR," yells one of his students, little jester's hat jungling as she waves her hand in the air, "PROFESSOR, YOU GOT _MARRIED?"_

"I said questions about the _lesson_ , Amara!" Jaskier says, exasperated, "Did you even take notes?"

"WHAT ABOUT YOUR BELOVED THE WITCHER, SIR?" shouts another, "HAVE YOU EVEN DEDICATED A SONG CYCLE TO THIS WOMAN?"

"That is _none_ of your---"

"I heard he has a baby," says Geoffrey, sagely, "Babies generally result in marriages."

"That's the other way around, you tart," Beth shoots back. 

"Alright," says Jaskier, agitated, "this is getting out of hand."

"I saw them!" Mina, who has, until this moment, been sleepily wound around Beth, pipes up, "She isn't a baby, she's maybe twelve! And very cute, sir, she has your smile."

This last sentence is so unprecedented that it brings Jaskier's mind to a stuttering halt. He refuses to process this.

"Twelve is a baby," says Geoffrey, unrepentant.

Another head pokes up from the lazy pile that is Beth-and-Mina, and signs, _I don't think they're actually married yet._ A pause, _also she looks terrifying._

Jaskier has been on this one's case for _months_ ; he's quite certain that he isn't anywhere on the registry, and he'd eat his lute if the boy was here legally. He's considered introducing yet another little brother to Roland. The little bugger is, however, _incredibly_ slippery.

Beth dutifully translates his words out to the rest of the class, and there's an immediate flurry of reactions, ranging from outrage _(why)_ to scandalous delight _(dear gods)._

"Sir," says Amara, almost despairingly, "you _must_ make an honest woman of her!"

"Does anyone," says Jaskier, _definitely_ despairingly, "have questions about the lesson? Just one? Please?"

Silence, strangely judgmental. He sighs.

"I'm going to marry her!" Jaskier says, throwing up his hands in defeat, "And my daughter's name is Fiona, no you _cannot meet her_ , yes she is very cute."

A chorus of cooing and cheers. Jaskier briefly considers giving up the bardic arts and becoming a cobbler or something. Maybe a farmer. He'd be a good farmer. He likes horses.

 _Can't wait for the wedding,_ signs the boy Jaskier hadn't adopted yet.

"You aren't invited," he replies, flatly, "None of you are invited. I'm going to elope. I'm also giving you all failing grades for your last essay."

Jaskier stands resolute in the face of the booing and heckling that follows. It's difficult; this is a more temperamental crowd than even that one tavern where someone shut him in a barrel in the middle of a set.

A hand is raised, in the midst of the chaos. Against his better judgement, he points and says, tiredly, "Yes?"

 _This is actually about the lesson,_ says the boy who goes by a different name for every class. Jaskier perks up.

 _You spoke about metaphors and symbolism to translate new stories into recognisable form while remaining familiar to an audience,_ he signs, straightening from his pile. He's wearing an absurdly expensive-looking chemise, laces undone, and a truly bedraggled cloak over that. 

_In that vein,_ he asks, _was your recent song, Her Sweet Kiss, also a lament from the perspective of a_ _doomed bard who has studied enough history to know when war is on the horizon, and fruitlessly warning the populace they love about the way it seduces people into a blood frenzy that will ruin generations to come?_

Jahkier has no idea what's happening right now. Also, the hand sign he'd just used for Her Sweet Kiss was delightful.

 _And,_ the boy's hands fumble occasionally in excitement, _finding that each warning is held further and further in contempt until they are alienated from the very people they're trying to protect?_

Jaskier blinks. And, once Beth has translated for the members of the class that doesn't speak Upper Redanian Sign, so does everyone else. 

"Er," he says, after a long, baffled pause, "Yes. Good, uh. Good eye."

* * *

The rest of the week follows in much the same vein. He's also filling in for someone (no he does _not_ remember who) so he doesn't have a moment's peace until he loudly turns down an invitation to go to the tavern and hurries back to his quarters at the end of each day.

"You won't _believe_ the day I've had," Jaskier says, though a mouthful of food that he'd found in a basket left by the door. He almost didn't bother with plates, but Yennefer's judgement is a powerful thing.

The note on the basket tells him it's from Irene, who got it from several people who were wishing her well on her upcoming handfasting. Clearly, the gossip mill had gotten _very_ confused at some point.

It also stated that she'd wanted to come inside while dropping it off, say hello to _Yenna_ and _Fiona_ , but unfortunately they both seemed to have gone out.

They had not, as a matter of fact.

"Strangled again?" she says, lazily stirring her cup of tea.

"If only," he sighs, "No, I had to deal with the usual nosey students, Irene's up my arse about taking on an apprentice, and also the little bugger who overanalyzed my song the other day is _convinced_ the last three song cycles I spat out are coded anti-war propaganda."

"...and that's bad?"

"It is," Jaskier says, mournfully, "if you aren't half as clever as they think you are."

This prompts a snort out of her, and Jaskier's heart does a funny little stutter about it. It's been doing that all week, as she let her guard down and the three of them found themselves settling into domesticity.

He's just stuffing it away in that imaginary shelf when Ciri pokes her head out of her room.

Her hair has been stuffed, rather messily, under one of his old hats; the little plum number, feathered and rarely worn.

"Someone threw a pebble at my window," she says, in a matter-of-fact tone, "and also is singing a rude song about your, er. Bits."

Yennefer raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. Ciri looks amused.

"...that'll be Valdo," sighs Jaskier. About his _bits,_ really. Valso Marx knows perfectly well that his bits are fantastic.

"I have some concerns about the company you keep, bard," says Yennefer, lazily. 

He _knows_. She's been resolutely avoiding the Roland situation, which can only last so long.

"I assure you, I do _not_ keep his company," he starts putting away his plates, "but I see your point. I'll go see what he wants---Ciri, that better not be his song you're humming."

"It's actually quite good!" Ciri giggles guiltily. 

Jaskier sighs in defeat, and walks past her into her room.

It's very neatly arranged, but for the rug thrown almost frantically in front of the full-length mirror he'd pilfered from the theatre house some time ago. There is, rather conspicuously, a set of shears sitting atop the rug.

He's distracted from this by a deep and almost disgustingly lovely voice in the distance, singing about the fact that he'd lost his penis in a bet during a midsummer festival in a temple of Melitele. Well, it doesn't name him, but _"silver-tongued and shadowed by a monster, buried his hatchets and the world did he wander"_ is rather hard to misinterpret.

Valdo is just winding up to the chorus, which has a rather cheerfully bellowed line about _"borrowed manhood, sorrowed statehood and hallowed sainthood"_ when Jaskier interrupts.

He'd much rather Ciri _didn't_ hear that, thank you very much. 

He sticks his head out the window, looks down on the smug little man with his smug little harp, and bellows, "Valdo you _prick_ , there are _children_ present!"

"YOUR DAUGHTER DESERVES TO KNOW THAT HER FATHER IS A BASTARD WHO LOSES OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS AND DEFILES TEMPLES."

"YOU WERE RIGHT THERE! DEFILING BY MY SIDE! ALSO, IT WAS EITHER YOUR TOY OR YOUR HEAD, VALDO, I WAS BEING PRAGMATIC."

_"YOU COULD'VE SAVED BOTH."_

"Every conversation I've seen him have," Ciri says, in a badly-hidden whisper, "is _exactly_ like this. Is this just what bards are like?"

"I'm beginning to wish we'd taken our chances and trekked up to Kaer Morhen," Yennefer replies, in an equally terrible whisper.

"WHY ARE YOU HARASSING ME AND MY FAMILY, MARX?"

"I DEMAND TO KNOW HOW _YOU_ MANAGED TO SIRE A CHILD, YOU TWO-OREN WHORE," he yells back, "BECAUSE I'VE BEEN BETWEEN THOSE LEGS, _DANDELION_ , AND IT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE MINE." 

"Oh dear gods," he says, face flushing red in mortification. 

"...what," say Ciri and Yen, understandably confused. 

Valdo's puffing up in a manner that threatens to prelude yet another ditty, likely dirtier and _more_ _obvious_ , because Valdo fucking Marx lives life like it's a gallows-song being sung by a condemned jester. Jaskier needs to stop this _immediately,_ or the whole Yen-and-Ciri jig will be up; there are already people gathering on the street around the troubadour, watching the exchange with amusement.

It must be said, however, that this is not an unusual encounter. Any time either Valdo Marx or Julian Pancratz find themself in fine old Oxenfurt, they will inevitably scour the city until they find the other. And once that has been done, they will engage in heckling one another with increasingly terrible singing. It's very entertaining for everyone, and occasionally another bard or two will join in and provide background music while the entire encounter devolves into a fistfight between two rickety old men.

Jaskier won't suffer for anyone else singing triple-layered songs about revelry in a temple that results in bargaining away a head for another head, and resulting in another sort of head entirely. Coming from anyone else, the jabs about _borrowed manhood_ might be cruel.

But Valdo Marx is the exact same song as Jaskier, give or take a few stanzas. Different origins, different names, different paths to wander. But they are very much the same, and so these stabs aren't too piercing. Jaskier can make a doubly-layered joke about stolen beards, and Valdo Marx can do the same. 

Also, they're both bastards and they enjoy making the other suffer.

At any rate, this leaves Jaskier with no choice but to yank the window open and scuttle down the side of the building to try and stuff that harp up Valdo's arse.

"We have a door," says Ciri, helpfully.

"I have magic," says Yen, bemusedly.

"No, you don't," Ciri reminds her, which prompts a huff out of Yen.

Valdo stops his singing to provide an obligatory appreciative whistle as Jaskier does his undignified clamber out the window-- it's been a while since he'd had to do something like this, alright, he's out of practice. 

He can hear some upstart begin to pluck on a lyre, much to his chagrin. This event will be musically accompanied, it seems. 

Valdo has the good manners to improvise a song about his arse that is at least _vaguely_ appropriate, which is about all Jaskier can expect from him, really. 

Jaskier makes it to the ground in an uncoordinated heap, and Marx just laughs at him. The fellow with the lyre plucks out a mournful note. Above him, Yen and Ciri are watching with varying degrees of amusement.

Jaskier wants to turn to Valdo and say something like, _"Shut up, why are you still on about the time we got drunk and angered several priestesses and one of them threatened to kill us and I cleverly got us out by suggesting they take away our manhoods, which was only clever because the only anatomical manhood we had between us was a toy you had commissioned. It was several years ago, and also I did us both a favour and it ended in some very enjoyable activities."_

Instead, he punches him in the face. The crowd that gathered around them lets out a collective cheer.

It is, after all, tradition. 

To absolutely no one's surprise, it devolves into a fistfight from there. The lyre actually makes decent accompaniment; whoever's playing is quite talented at improvising.

* * *

In the end, Valdo Marx stays for dinner.

Or, more accurately, he and Jaskier are forcibly driven apart by a long-suffering Irene, who can reliably smell their shenanigans from miles away.

"Get it together, you two," she snaps, smashing their heads together with an audible _thunk._ "We're too old to keep doing this. Well, most of us are."

Jaskier doesn't address that. Or the fact that Valdo is very clearly more winded by their activities than him. He feels fine, but Valdo looks a bit shite. There's grey in his hair, and the bags under his eyes don't look like they're from lack of sleep.

"Also, lovely work there, Leon," she says, smiling fondly at the student with the lyre, "I'll count that as extra credit, very good improvisation."

Jaskier looks up, blood gushing from his nose, to spy out that boy from class, lyre in hand. The one who was too clever by half. He's wearing an ill-fitted pair of threadbare trousers and an intricately embroidered doublet.

"His name is Eamon," Jaskier says, voice creaky with pain.

"Had him in my class last semester," says Valdo, muffled and face-down on the cobbled stone of the street, "His name's Malik."

Malik-Eamon-Leon just looks smug, tips forward into a neat little curtsy, and flounces off.

"There's no way that boy is here legally," says Irene, as the crowd disperses. At some point, Ciri had thrown his old hat down, and it's filled with coin. 

"Oh definitely not."

"I'll eat Jaskier's ugly hat if he is."

" _My_ ugly hat? You have the _gall_ to say that when you're wearing that green _eyesore_ on your head?"

"Darling, it makes me look dignified. A concept far beyond you, I'm sure."

"You think dignity is beyond _me?_ You were _just_ singing a song about my arse!"

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if you didn't w---"

 _"BOYS,"_ snaps Irene, and they both wisely shut up. She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "Why don't you discuss everything indoors? Jaskier, invite him for dinner."

"I already had--"

She gives him a nearly murderous look. Valdo squeaks in sympathy.

And so Valdo Marx stays for dinner.

* * *

"I actually came here for a reason," says Valdo, as they both head upstairs.

Jaskier's having a bit of difficulty keeping all of their dubiously-begotten coin in his hat while navigating the stairs, and so takes a moment to reply, "Besides harassing me and my new family?"

"I refuse to go along with whatever farce you have going in order to escape your string of cuckolds," Valdo sniffs. 

What an _arse_ . Honestly, this is why he keeps trying to kill him. Not that it'll ever _stick_ , but it's the journey, you know. 

"No, I have some, er, news for you. A warning, if you will," he says, just as they've got to the top of the stairs. He can hear Ciri laughing inside, likely at some derisive remark Yen's made about him. Footsteps shuffling closer, a _shush_.

Valdo Marx, younger than him by three months but looking older than he had any right to, looks at him with pale blue eyes he'd almost loved, and says, "Someone's hired me to look for you."

 _"What,"_ says Jaskier, and he's so shocked that it sounds like his voice just echoed.

"Well, they're looking for the dead daughter of Gregor Pancratz," says Valdo, a bit drily, "and the equally dead wife of Enri Cieślak, but since that poor bastard isn't available, I think they'd settle for you. Also, Sigismund says hello, which is its own separate bad news."

"What," he says, and there it is again, that echo. Strangely high-pitched. His life is unraveling _rapidly_ and before his very eyes. Dear gods.

He opens the door, fumbling a bit, and says, "Listen, Marx, we'll discuss this later--"

And finds Ciri in his arms, stumbling forward from where she'd been wedged against the door. The coins all clatter to the ground.

"What," he says _again,_ and---wait. That isn't an echo, that's Ciri.

"I believe an explanation is due?" says Yen, eyes narrowed.

"Is that _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ ," says Valdo, sounding bemused.

"Is this the man Geralt said you tried to kill with a djinn?" says Ciri, excitedly.

Jaskier thinks again, wistfully, about being a farmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!! endnotes!!
> 
> 1) the little mismatched bastard with the lyre is a longtime oc of mine, and I love him dearly. I might post an original fic with his story here sometime. He's going to get Bard Adopted at some point, and it's only a matter of who. Place your bets, everyone!
> 
> 2) this Valdo Marx is like Jaskier, but infinitely worse. Make of that what you will.
> 
> 3) Jaskier's past is catching up to him :') and next chapter--- GERALT, and also the inside of Yen's head. And more Ciri content, I promise.
> 
> 4) We've introduced all relevant ocs now!! Please tell me if you hate them and I will immediately arrange for them to die mysteriously
> 
> edit: this is s lie there's one left but that's fine he's been mentioned and he isn't important probably
> 
> 5) I'm fucking begging you please tell me about any typos I typed this on my phone like a godless heathen


	4. sometimes family is a loosely-connected network of friends who keep adopting people and princesses and sorceresses and witchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on today's episode: Valdo Marx Stays for Dinner, our intrepid heroes experience Domesticity™ and also Geralt of Rivia Makes Some Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this one is a mess. I don't know if there's too much going on or too little. There is a plot, I promise, we're really getting into it now. Also I was horribly wrong about the ocs, as it turns out. 
> 
> Also I'm very sorry for not replying to your comments, of late. I've been very tired a lot, and my social spoons are at zero, even for things like this. But I do love and appreciate every single one, and read them over and over.

The table is, understandably,  _ very _ awkward.

"This is good food," says Valdo, blithely. Well, as blithely as one can when one is  _ profoundly _ aware of how tense the room is.

Julian, his "wife", and his "child" sit on the opposite side of the table, which only serves to make the situation worse, atmosphere-wise. Still, it's nice to know he's found people that are willing to facilitate his endless, insatiable hunger for drama. 

"Irene dropped it off," Julian replies, flatly, "The rumor mill got confused and half the staff think she's getting married."

Valdo snorts, "Who do they think  _ she's _ going to marry?"

"...honestly? I think there's a betting pool--heard someone from the linguistics department say they think she's just doing a mock-handfasting over at the Bells."

"Still doesn't answer the question of who  _ Irene _ would ever _ deign _ to settle down with--"

" _ Bard _ ," says Julian's wife, in a severe tone. It sounds practiced. 

Valdo isn't quite sure whether she's addressing him or Julian, but he wisely shuts up. Julian, perhaps similarly confused, does the same.

This prompts her to make a complicated, and vaguely exasperated, face. The little girl, who has hair just a shade too light to be Julian's, giggles into her hands. Valdo eyes her. She eyes him right back, almost gleefully.

He is fully convinced that this is an elaborate farce. The only question; is Julian orchestrating, or is he in trouble? 

It's hard to think of a little girl as nefarious, but Valdo was once very convinced he was a little girl. He knows how treacherous they can be. 

"Right," says Julian, his unfairly youthful face twisting into a grimace, "Yenna, Fiona--this is Valdo Marx. We went to school together, he's a colleague and---yes, Fiona?"

"Fiona" (Valdo would eat Julian's ugly hat if that's her actual name) has her hand raised, as though she were in a classroom.

"Did you really try to kill him with a djinn?" she asks, gravely.

"Er," says Julian, looking panicked.

This is the least surprising piece of information Valdo has ever received. It's barely information. This is  _ profoundly  _ in line with what he expects of Julian, a man who has been creatively murdering him since their student days.

There is, however, one thing.

"A  _ djinn?" _ he asks, rightfully indignant, "Where did you even  _ get _ a djinn? How were you going to kill me with a  _ djinn?" _

"Geralt fished it out, and I wished for apoplexy. Didn't work though, ended up with my throat in ribbons," Julian tells him, and Valdo can see Fiona's face get progressively more delighted. 

_ "Apoplexy?"  _ he spits, properly worked up now, "You  _ bastard!  _ You  _ cur!  _ You  _ know _ I hate apoplexy, it's genuinely upsetting! Perhaps worse, even, than drowning!"

"I wouldn't have done it," Julian retorts, "if  _ you _ hadn't fucked me over at--"

" _ Bard _ ," Yenna says again, and they both stop. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, and says, "I don't know why I expected you to talk like adults. Jas--Julian. I want to know why this man is here, and why someone is looking for you."

"And also why you don't seem too upset about the apoplexy thing," Fiona adds.

"I assure you, young lady, I am  _ very _ upset," he informs her.

"Valdo kissed a faery when we were in our second year," Julian says, because he is a cruel traitor who cannot be trusted with confidential information, this is why he's such a terrible spy, "and now he can't die. Well, there might be some sort of limit, but we haven't found it yet."

"You just keep killing him?" she asks, appropriately horrified. Or, what Valdo thinks is appropriately horrified; he's rather desensitized. Death is an old friend that he kicks in the balls and runs from, cackling all the way. 

"It's fine, he doesn't even feel it, mostly."

"I absolutely do," says Valdo, who has a running list of Least Favourite Deaths In Order Of How Bloody Painful Or Inconvenient, in his battered old university songbook. 

"... _ mostly _ ," Julian stresses, likely because he's still guilty about the time they stayed up too long studying and thought it'd be a brilliant idea to impale Valdo with a hot poker, and then promptly passed out; Julian from exhaustion, Valdo from pain. They'd woken up to Shani giving them an earful, and they wouldn't hear the end of it for years. They also still had to go to class.

" _Anyway_ ," says Valdo, before the woman who is _almost certainly_ _a sorceress_ gets irritated again, "I've already told Julian why I'm here---I was hired by parties unknown to look for him, and that's rather alarming for several reasons."

"Who is Gregor Pancratz? And Enri--- _ whoever?" _

Julian makes a face. 

Understandable. Valdo is sure his face is similar. He's about to say something-- something clever to distract the conversation, or something that isn't a lie but won't have Julian reveal more than he's comfortable--he knows, intimately, that they are both the sort of man that has built themself brick by bloody brick, and having any of that carefully curated image taken away is--

But he's beaten to it by Julian himself. 

"Er, he's my father--the name rather gives it away, I think," he says, slowly, "And Enri-- is my husband."

There is a long, weighty silence following that. Valdo leans back against his chair, Irene's ill-begotten stew soaking the last scrap of his bread, and re-evaluates the two strangers at the table with them.

Or; not strangers after all. Julian trusts them. He isn't being coerced, or he'd have let Valdo take the reins, perhaps even spun some misdirection himself. 

And since Julian trusts them, Valdo must begrudgingly do the same. He will, however, stay somewhat on guard; after all,  _ one  _ of them must remain the responsible one.

(And since neither Irene nor Essi are here, it must be him. Oh, the burdens he carries for his friends)

"... _ clarify _ ," says Yenna. 

" _ Sometimes _ you are the eldest daughter of a Pancratz, and you are born into power and privilege, and you get betrothed and wed to a very nice man," Julian says, voice deceptively light-hearted, "but actually, you're a man and everyone else is  _ very mistaken _ , and you want to be a bard! But unfortunately you're still betrothed and a wife and a daughter. And so you do the  _ only reasonable thing _ one can do, under the circumstances."

A beat. Valdo sips at his tea.

"You dig up a corpse and lay it on your bed," Julian goes on, dropping his voice lower, tone well-practiced and even, like he's telling a well-trod folktale, "and you burn your wing of the manor down while your new husband is away. And you run to Oxenfurt in his shoes, wearing his clothes, and you name yourself and become a bard. Could happen to anyone, really."

Valdo keeps his eye on them as they absorb this, chewing absently. It's a very good Confused-Rumor-Mill Dinner. 

"...oh," says Fiona, at last, "This explains a lot."

(It rather does, doesn't it? This is what informs every aspect of who they are. Valdo didn't burn down half a manor, but he did hack his father's arm off and steal his name. 

They will always be shaped by this part of them. Every song they sing, every path they walk, every story they write or paint or live out. He and Jaskier and Roland and Cinna and little Essi and Pris. They will, all of them, never escape it. 

Not that he wants to, he's perfectly happy with the blood and tears he's spilled to build himself. The way it seeps into every song and every word and every time he thinks too long about the way he's crossing his legs.

But times like this, it  _ is  _ rather inconvenient.)

Yenna is looking at Julian with an expression that seems, harrowingly, like understanding. And something else. Almost tender. Valdo briefly feels as though he's intruding on something intimate.

(Which is  _ absurd _ , he's seen all of Julian's intimates.)

"And now they're looking for you?" she asks Julian, quietly. There is a terrifying intensity in her eyes, and Valdo is abruptly reminded of the stories he'd heard about Sodden.

"They asked the name of a dead woman," Valdo offers, "I don't think they know about Jaskier, lucky for you. But someone's going to put it together, it's only a matter of time."

"Thanks, Valdo," Julian says, flatly, "Very reassuring."

"You could fake your death again," he suggests, and he's entirely joking.

Julian looks genuinely contemplative. 

"No," says Yenna, firmly, "There'll be no need for that. I'll protect you, and deal with this---obstacle."

Julian flushes pink, and stutters something ridiculous and incomprehensible.

Valdo very carefully doesn't roll his eyes. Of  _ course.  _ Julian has a type, and that type is  _ capable of murder. _

Something occurs to him then. Two things, actually.

"We could get Essi to pretend to be Cieślak's dead wife," he says, slowly, instead of the other thing, "lure them in and trap them."

"And eliminate them," says Yenna, darkly. Valdo pretends not to see how pleased Julian looks.

"...not if it's Enri, though! He's actually very sweet!"

"You faked your death to get away from him, Julian."

"...yes, but that had nothing to do with him! That was all me!"

"I've heard that one before."

"Valdo, I will not hesitate to kill you with a spoon in front of my daughter."

"Have you died of spoon before?" Fiona asks, and bless her. She looks genuinely curious. 

"...no," says Valdo. 

"I can change that for you," Julian mutters. 

"Julian, you are over  _ half _ of my deaths already, aren't you satisfied?"

"I'll be satisfied when---"

_ "Bards." _

That stops them. Fiona starts snickering at them, which is, all things considered, fair. 

* * *

Yennefer watches with carefully constructed disinterest as the bards start concocting a plan.

The firelight plays lightly on the lines of Jaskier's jaw, the stubble that's grown in, the smile that's forming as he listens to his friend dictate a ridiculously coded message. His eyes are very blue.

Yennefer thinks, carefully disinterested, about what she's learned. 

Jaskier, before she'd come to Oxenfurt and found him in a bustling tavern, had always seemed. Vapid. Ridiculous, and flouncy, and shallow; his songs seemed like flash and glamour to get any coin he can, and his actions almost callous in their ignorance.

She remembers  _ Toss a Coin _ . It was, she thought, written by a very stupid human, who had known nothing but luxury. Warping complex encounters, layered by centuries of history and war and trauma, into a trite hero's tale.

Now, she thinks it was written by a stupid human who was desperately scrabbling for any sort of purchase in the world.

Still, not much comfort to the elves he'd gotten his lute from. 

It doesn't. It doesn't quite change anything; he's still an irritating fly of a man who buzzed around Geralt and flirted badly and was cruel almost offhandedly and sang stupid songs and didn't ask for permission when writing heartbreak ballads comparing you to an oncoming disaster (which is only a little flattering).

But it does cast it in a different light, somewhat. The way he's so loud, like he wants to carve a space for himself into the world. The clothes. The kinship he'd found in Geralt, who'd been ostracized and alone and hurt. The desperate, frantic energy of him. She can, on a fundamental level, understand that.

And, here's the thing that she understands a little more now: he didn't even ask why Yennefer and Ciri were here--just immediately took them in. And now, she can only think, _of course he did._

She watches Ciri finish her tea (a transparent ploy to stay and watch the proceedings) and herds her to bed. She goes gracelessly, sulking.

Yennefer pauses by the door, listening. She hasn't opened it yet, and she can hear the bards whisper. They've had quite a bit of wine, and neither of them are subtle creatures. Ciri, perking up at the prospect of more spying, scuttles forward and presses her ear to the door.

Sighing, Yennefer does the same. There is no dignity in parenthood, it seems.

"---and  _ Fiona _ ," the man with the atrocious moustache is saying, "listen, Jules, I'm not an idiot. You've got a woman who matches every description I've ever gotten of Yennefer of Vengerberg in my reports, and a small girl with dyed hair who's on first name terms with Geralt of Rivia!"

Yennefer stiffens. Reflexively, she reaches inward for her magic, and immediately feels like she's had her stomach pulled out of her throat. The pain whites out her vision for a moment, and she thinks she can smell ash.

"...how obvious is it that it's dyed?"

Yennefer takes a moment off from being in unspeakable pain to roll her eyes heavenward.

"Not very, it's actually quite good."

"Oh, thank the gods. Cinna's work."

"I could tell. Listen, my point is, I don't care. Or, well, I do, but I won't rat you out or anything,  _ gods _ . What do you take me for? I'll even seduce the Dean into turning a blind eye, if you like."

_ "Please don't." _

"Threaten?"

"...maybe. If it comes to that. And...thank you, Valdo."

"Isn't this what we do--- pay it forward? If you can help, take them in? I don't know them, or love them, but it's clear that you care about them."

A pause.

"Yeah."

"Then I do too," says the man whose name Yennefer hasn't bothered to remember, "implicitly. Still keeping my knife in my boot though, one of us has to."

A snicker. Ciri looks up at Yennefer with very blue eyes, and whispers, "Geralt always said Jaskier was a bit of a self-obsessed cock."

Yennefer considers this.

"Well," she says, delicately, " _ Geralt's _ a bit of a self-obsessed cock."

Ciri rolls her eyes in a manner that's jarringly familiar. Then before she can be properly alarmed at a child picking up her habits, Jaskier says something that catches her attention;

"What was that about Sigismund, by the way? I quit, remember?"

_ Sigismund Djkistra, _ Yennefer thinks, incredulous. 

"No, you had your cover compromised and nearly caused an international incident. And he wants me to recruit you into helping me investigate some, er. Apparently there's some sort of underground operation? In the university? And well, we're the best men for the job."

_ A spy _ , Ciri mouths, excited.

_ A bad one,  _ Yennefer informs her. Considering they're both hearing this. This doesn't deter her, however, and she remains delighted.

She's delighted about most things regarding Jaskier. And all of Oxenfurt, really. All the colour and bustle. Ciri has taken to all of it like a particularly personable duck to water.

"--the students?" Jaskier's saying, "or the staff?"

"No clue, but they're in contact with Nilfgaard."

"...oh  _ that _ kind of organization."

"Well I didn't bloody come here to investigate a  _ book club-- _ "

Yennefer rolls her eyes and shoos Ciri back to bed. She goes more gracefully this time.

* * *

Yennefer dreams of blood and ash and burning flesh, and closed wooden doors that she claws against, and screaming so loud and so long that her throat is nothing but blood and she turns around and  _ gods  _ Geralt's dead he's dead he's dead and he died thinking she hated him oh gods where's Ciri where is she, is she safe, that's Jaskier screaming in the distance fuck  _ she can't move _ her hands are cracked and burned she's--

She wakes quietly. She has long since trained herself to stay quiet during night terrors.

She is, briefly, coiled up in silent panic, wondering at what could've woken her, when a hand runs over her arm. She jolts.

"Shh," says Jaskier, half-asleep, "Y're alright. I've got you."

He gracelessly runs a hand down the side of her face, and kisses her on the cheek. She freezes.

"Dreams 're bad," he mumbles, "but 't's alrigh'. I've got you, Yen."

And he falls back asleep, hand still on her face. 

It's a terrible, clumsy attempt at comfort, and he won't remember it in the morning, but.

She closes her eyes, and listens to him breathe. The next room over, she can hear Ciri's little snuffle of a snore. 

She falls back asleep, and does not dream.

* * *

a letter to the bard Essi Daven, from her dear friend and mentor Julian:

Dearest Essi,

I do hope this letter finds you well. I myself am writing in good health; or as good as one's health can be when Valdo Marx has swung into one's life and humiliated him in front of his own wife and child. 

Also, I have a wife and child. Or, a future-wife and current-child. You know how it is, you sow your wild oats and suddenly you've got a daughter and now you must become a family man or the mother of your child will eviscerate you. A tale as old as bards, I'm sure. 

But, that's quite beside the point, my dear! 

I find myself ever-delighted by your pursuit of the open road and the eschewing of courts and the like, but I've heard of quite a good employment opportunity in Lettenhove. I'm telling you this because you are as a little sister to me-- you even look the part! Were it not for your hair, why, we could be twins!

They're headhunting for a bard, I hear, and you are nothing if not the sweetest of koel-birds. 

The handfasting will likely be at the end of the school year. Plenty of time for you to finish this job, I'm sure.

I'm writing to Pris as well, so you likely won't be alone. I'd heard old Finnegan was in the area, too. Maybe form a little band! Bards work best in harmonies, yes? 

All my love (and Valdo's too I suppose),

Julian

  
  
  


a letter to the bard Calonetta, or Priscilla, by her dearest friends Valdo and Julian:

C,

You owe us. Ask LE. Burn this letter. Dye her hair please, she's terrible at it. Find F, he's been alone for too long and that never ends well. 

Avoid S, he's going to make you go back to school and investigate a book club. 

Lots of love,

Dandy and Velvet 

* * *

In all the bustle of the night before, they hadn't noticed that Ciri had  _ cut her bloody hair _ .

"I noticed," Yen volunteers, examining her nails, "I just didn't care enough to comment."

Alright. In all the bustle,  _ Jaskier _ hadn't noticed that Ciri had  _ cut her bloody hair. _

"Did you use  _ gardening shears?" _ he wails, while Ciri looks on, unrepentant, "Where did you even  _ get _ it?"

"Cinna gave it to me," she says, smugly, "and ze said I could use it as a weapon."

"You  _ cannot! _ You have  _ proper knives! _ And look at this mess, really, it's all choppy! Won't you let me even it out, please?"

"Cinna says I need to express myself independent of what authority figures expect of me," she says, firmly.

"YOU CAN BE REBELLIOUS WITH EVENLY CUT HAIR."

Ciri, unmoved, only says, "Yes, but I won't. Also Yen says I look alright."

She does, but it's the  _ principle _ of the thing. It's a choppy, uneven little chin length bob and  _ how had he not noticed this--- _

"It was up to my shoulders last night," Ciri offers helpfully, "I woke up this morning and cut off some more."

"I'm going to cry," says Jaskier, haphazardly grading the last of the assignment papers before class, "Is that what you want? To make your fake-father cry?"

"It isn't very hard to make you cry. I saw you crying because my handwriting looks nice the other day," says Ciri.

Yen snorts.

It was very good penmanship, alright. Any bard-father (barther?) would be proud. Cintran shorthand is a lost art, and well. It's even _more_ lost now.

"You're late," Yen tells him, "And I can see your mustachioed little friend by the window. If he starts singing again, I'm using Ciri's new shears on him."

Ugh,  _ Valdo.  _ Jaskier recently learned that it's  _ his _ classes he's been covering all semester, and he's still peeved about that. 

"I'll be on my way, then! Ciri, reconsider the hair offer, please? Valdo's good at hair, despite his being a terrible human being---oh, and Yen, I'll be by this afternoon to help with your medicine?"

"Mm," says Yen, absently, "Don't forget your lute, you're doing a practical demonstration today."

"Ah,  _ that's _ what I was forgetting!"

"Also your pants aren't done up," Ciri informs him, a sly little look on her face.

"Oh dear, is that----they very well  _ are _ , you little devil! How do I  _ keep  _ falling for this?"

Ciri's snickering follows him out the door.

* * *

here is a secret:

Yennefer gets tired easily, these days. 

There is something leaden in her bones, something terrible and sinking. She feels a yawning, empty space open up beneath her ribs and threaten to swallow her.

She talks to Ciri about what magical theory she can impart without practical demonstration to back it up. She eats the food Jaskier plies her with. She gets up and banters and talks to them.

But mostly, she sleeps. 

She is tired. She has lived so long, and lived so much. She knows that some part of her should hate this, this  _ lethargy _ ; Yennefer has always been a grasping, relentless force of nature. She would be  _ better _ , age should be clawing the magic out of whatever part of her it's buried in. 

But gods. She's  _ tired _ . Wrung-out and empty.

And so, she sleeps.

  
  
  


here is another:

Yennefer wakes up to laughter in the kitchen. The sun is just setting, and the room is awash with gold and red.

She can hear a lute being tuned. There is a half-mended sock on the bed beside her, dotted with the wobbly little flowers that Ciri has just learned to do. There is a clumsy braid in her hair, woven with a ribbon Ciri refuses to wear now. There are half open books littering the table. An uncapped inkwell. A book of magical healing, next to a book of ballads, loose papers spilling over onto the floor. One of them has fluttered to the edge of the bed; it is the beginnings of a ballad, barely legible. Ciri has drawn a little Roach in the corner. It's an excellent rendering.

Yennefer breathes in, deep. And lies back down, and allows herself to fall back asleep.

and another:

"She  _ snores!" _

"Shih, don't tell her, I don't think she knows--"

* * *

Ciri's life has become strangely cozy. Like clockwork; familiar and well-trod.

She spends mornings learning about magic and theory with Yen, until Yen gets tired and pulls the blinds closed and takes a nap. Around noon, Jaskier will swing by to help with medicine-- one of Yen's potions needs to be brewed daily or it goes bad, and Yen is too tired to do it herself.

She sits and watches Yen dictate Jaskier's actions, even though he must know how to do it by now. They bicker a lot, and they get soft-eyed when they think the other isn't looking.

Ciri practices her sketches until they're done, and she follows him out as he heads back to classes. He complains about something-or-other; annoying students, the shoddy syllabus he intends on ignoring, Valdo Marx showing him up somehow, colleagues who ask too many personal questions, people asking about Geralt--

Except he doesn't  _ say _ Geralt. He never talks about Geralt. He talks around him, like he's buried the very thought of him. 

He drops her off at Cinna and Bren Roland's, and she spends her afternoons there; learning calligraphy and forgery and lockpicking and makeup and sketching and how to sew and hiding daggers in fun places and sewing in fun places to hide daggers in her clothes. 

They're very fun people. They tell her about the rhythm of life in Oxenfurt; about gender and love and the secrets you can hide here. Sometimes, another staff member or a friend or family-they-impulsively-made will come in with someone fresh and scared-looking-- asking for a new name or a face. 

And, in the evenings, Cinna drops her home, on the way to drop off orders for the bakery ze works at. While she's on the way out, Bren calls out an invitation to bring her mother next time, and she cheerily misdirects, because Yennefer has been resolutely avoiding her new fake sibling. 

By the time she's home, the sun has set and Yen's up again. She's setting the table and putting together whatever dinner Jaskier has prepared beforehand. Ciri tells her about her day. Jaskier comes home, weary but bright, and sometimes Valdo will follow because he's living alone and can't cook. 

They have dinner, and they laugh and maybe sing, and talk about their day.

And Ciri goes to sleep, cozy and content. Like clockwork.

The world outside Oxenfurt barely exists to her, now. Cintra and Geralt and Nilfgaard and the magic burning in her bones and the way her scream can break things and the war marching towards them all--

It seems so far away. She tries not to think about it. Think  _ around _ it instead, the way Jaskier does Geralt and Yen does Sodden. The life here seems more substantial; steady and grounded and warm. She has a small home. She's learning art and music and love. She isn't a princess, or a pawn, or a powerful person bogged down by Destiny. She's just Fiona, just Ciri; just a girl, ordinary and cozy and living a clockwork life. 

She wonders, in a part of her that she won't think about, what it would've been like if any of this were real. 

* * *

a letter, unmarked, addressed to Dandy and Velvet, and delivered to the Three Little Bells:

Fuck you. Found F. You weren't kidding about the hair.

Will be singing soon. Want us to bury this bridge?

Love,

C

a reply, hastily penned:  


DO NOT KILL ANYONE FOR FUCKS SAKE GODS JUST BRING THEM ROUND OR SOMETHING (d)

also say hello to f i miss him kiss kiss (v)

* * *

"Hey, psst. You there, are you awake?"

Geralt doesn't even bother looking up. He wants to enjoy what little rest he gets before Fringilla returns. He's graduated to not being manacled to the wall, which is an improvement, but this is likely because he's genuinely too weak to even consider an escape attempt.

"Is he asleep," another voice whispers, loudly.

"Is he  _ dead?" _ asks yet another.

"I feel like we'd be in trouble if he's dead," says the first one, in a worried tone, "Wait, no, I can see him breathing. Hold on--"

Something _thunks_ against his head.

He moves his head to look incredulously at the boot that was just lobbed at his head. And then up at whoever decided that  _ obnoxious boot-tossing _ was the torture method of the day.

"Sorry about that," says one of the three huddled figures by the bars, and oh  _ gods _ . That's a  _ child. _ Well, older than Ciri, but not much. Can't be more than eighteen. "Didn't really think that one through, could you toss it back?"

A pause, while Geralt briefly wonders what existential sin could possibly lead to him deserving this. This can't still be about spitting in Destiny's face, right? He's trying to fix that, that's how he wound up in this cell in the first place.

"No," he grunts, unmoved, "My boot now."

"Aw, no, that was a gift!"

"Shouldn't have tossed it at me, then."

"I thought you were asleep!"

"Or dead," another one adds, helpfully. They're all wearing the flowing robes and capes associated with sorcerers and their ilk, but this one is also wearing a little jester's hat.

Geralt eyes them warily. 

"We'll run out of time soon," says the third--a tall boy with fair hair and dark skin, "Mistress Fringilla's on her way soon, and we honestly just wanted to see if you were still alive, and--"

"We want to break you out," says the one who lobbed a shoe at his head.

"...what," says Geralt, flatly.

"We're her apprentices!" says Jester's Hat, brightly, "you don't remember us but we keep having to heal you after you get tortured, and we're a bit tired of it. Also, my sister's quite fond of you, apparently."

_ "And," _ the tall one says, elbowing his companion in the side, "we've got a moral objection to the fact they're going to use you to make more Witchers, which is probably going to end up in a lot of torture and corpses for a lot of people in general."

Geralt barely processes this. He blinks.

"And the little lion cub," says Boot-Tosser, "is apparently very cute and now we've got a moral obligation to protect you because our friends really like her and her dad. And her mum, but apparently they don't see her much."

Geralt processes  _ none _ _of this_.

"We just wanted to explain, because it'll be a lot easier if you cooperate," says Jester's Hat, in a matter-of-fact tone.

There's a silence where they look at him expectantly, as though waiting for a response. Geralt has lived a long and storied life, but none of that has prepared him for  _ this. _

And so Geralt falls back on a true and tried method, used by many Witchers throughout their long and bloody history:

He grunts, turns his back on them, and resolves to go back to Pretending To Sleep In Hopes That Sleep Will Finally Come To Him.

"Rude," says Jester's Hat.

"...d'you think he's dead _now?"_

"No, but I think that was an agreement!" says Boots, and they are  _ very wrong, _ " Definitely agreement! Shit, Mistress Fringilla's going to show up soon--- Soren, do you mind replying to your Leon?"

"Not his name," says Tall One, sounding amused.

"Eamon?"

"Nope."

"Whatever, just reply. Asha and I will hold her off---Keep playing unconscious, Master Witcher! Very smart of you!"

There's some more shuffling, and the gaggle of young and irritating sorcerers finally take their leave.

Geralt closes his eyes, and tries to put the encounter out of mind. He's halfway convinced it was a very confusing hallucination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!! endnotes!!
> 
> 1) Jaskier calls Essi a koel-bird in his Very Unsubtly coded letter to her; Koels are an asian cuckoo. They lay birds in other birds' nests. This was an attempt to reference a lesser known-bird and still wink-wink-nudge-nudge her into impersonating him. Bards are simultaneously terrible and very good at being spies.
> 
> Also, this and Related Shenanigans hve happened enough times that this isn't really a surprising request to Essi. And with Priscilla, genuinely, they didn't even bother with much subterfuge.
> 
> 2) DOMESTICITY! FLUFF! IS IT TOO MUCH? DOES IT FEEL LIKE FILLER. PLEASE IM TERRIFIED
> 
> 3) the Valdo thing is just. This is the funniest possible way to explain the apoplexy thing okay. Some best friends take u drinking or whatever, Jaskier just straight up murders you but it's fine. Valdo's fine, he'll walk it off, don't think about it too hard.
> 
> 4) JASKIER'S BACKSTORY!!! Thoughts? Is this what you expected? There's more, absolutely, and it'll come and bite everyone in the ass very soon, but y'know. ;)
> 
> 5) GERALT! He's alive, and little sorcerers are adopting him. Good for him. 
> 
> 6) Who are the little sorcerers? Who knows! 
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR: two old men attempting to dismantle a book club that may not exist, Geralt getting harrassed, Ciri getting Bard Adopted Again, and a Roland Family Dinner (sorry yen)
> 
> I appreciate your comments, and all the love you've given to this fic so far. I love you all so much, and writing this and seeing your reactions to this has given me so much joy in a very difficult time.
> 
> also, I'm available @buttrecups on tumblr, or @teefpaste on twitter! hmu!!


	5. interlude; Geralt and the junior sorcerers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes some very annoying friends, and very carefully does not think about Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, but this isn't a full chapter. I know I promised you a fun chapter with The Roland Family Antics and Ciri Shenaniganry but I've been put on some new medication that's been putting me through the wringer, side-effects wise. And also I've had several life events happen in very quick succession, and my ability to write is a bit shot, currently
> 
> So I'm giving you this half chapter filled with Geralt musings, and please tell me if it isn't coherent or if it reads badly. I definitely wasn't at my best when I wrote it.

Unfortunately for Geralt, he wasn't hallucinating.

He isn't hallucinating the next day either, when the jingly little sorcerer with the jester's hat swings in and slips him a potion with a wink.

"For  _ healing-adjacent-purposes, _ it's isn't poison--or it isn't poison on purpose," she says, waving the bottle in his face, "Now let me pour it down your throat, it's either this or we find some way to inject it in you, and you will  _ not _ like that."

Geralt groggily accepts it, fully expecting poison anyway. Might as well go out accepting strange potions from strange children in a strange cell.

She pats him lightly on the head after he's done, and says, "How'd we do, then?"

Geralt, who is barely awake and therefore has not registered that his limbs are not aching the way they should, just grunts, "Tastes like ass."

A pause. 

"You know, we spent  _ ages _ trying to concoct something that'd work with your physiology without hurting you," she says, incredulous, "you lot keep your special witcher juices locked up tight, and you just  _ wouldn't _ tell Mistress Frin under torture! We worked very hard! Also I made it sparkle!"

It did, indeed, sparkle. Geralt doesn't quite appreciate shimmering pink liquids in fancy-looking vials, but surely someone out there will. Also, he's sure he just felt grains of glitter going down his throat and he very much does not appreciate  _ that _ .

"Still tastes like ass," he says, unrepentant. 

"... _ fine _ , we'll take it into consideration," she pouts, before flouncing out. 

Geralt  _ also  _ isn't hallucinating exactly three hours after this conversation, when Fringilla's tortures are suspiciously painless. He spies the little Boot-Tosser mouthing something at him over her shoulder.

_ Scream,  _ they say.

Geralt briefly considers that perhaps the potion  _ did  _ kill him, and that this supremely confusing situation is the torture waiting for him beyond the veil. 

The apprentice makes a little face, presumably to indicate pain. They look constipated. Somehow, no one around them notices this display.

Baffled and resigned, Geralt makes the appropriate tortured noises. Boots gives him an encouraging thumbs-up.

It can, therefore, be concluded that he's also not hallucinating when, five painless hours after he's been unceremoniously dumped in his cell, the tall one slips past the guards--- with a whispered spell that makes them look away-- and leans towards the bars. He's got a hood over his head that does nothing to hide who he is, and his eyes are bloodshot and ringed with dark circles.

"Heya, Master Witcher," he whispers, bouncing with frantic energy, "I haven't got much time. Mistress Frin's got a royal fuckload of your blood squirreled away, and we've been looking for that, but while we were in the nightmare labyrinth she calls a lab, we found--"

"Wait," says Geralt, who is now awake, totally un-tortured and beginning to realize the full scope of his recent interactions with his captors' apprentices,  _ "my blood?" _

"Oh, yeah, Master Cahir wants to use it to sort of retrace their way into building Witchers," he says, terrifyingly casual, "did we not mention this earlier?"

"...no?" says Geralt, who is now understandably alarmed.

"It's alright, they haven't gotten anywhere with it, and Asha's been regularly causing problems. And also we're looking for it," he says, quickly, "But listen, we--"

"You numbed me today," says Geralt, eyes narrowed. 

"...yes? You're welcome, also we're working on the texture issue," he says, clearly uncomprehending. 

Geralt looks at him. The boy looks back.

Can't be older than nineteen, and fully human from the looks of it. Said he was an apprentice, so he can't be a graduate--not a full sorcerer, then.

Earnest and wide-eyed, face covered in soot and potion-residue, looking at Geralt like his questioning his motives is absurd. Naive in the way only a child can be, but still clever and cruel enough to have made it this far. Kindness, after all, does not often serve a budding sorcerer well.

But here he is, clutching at the bars with shaking hands, fingers stained shimmering-numbing-potion-pink. Talking about  _ moral obligations _ and shying away from the very human cost of magical success.

And here Geralt is, a man built of cruelty after cruelty, watching him.

This is the thing about Witchers; they are boys alone and abandoned, and made of pain and hardship and potions. You watch as your friends die, and your body becomes strange and alien and unknown, and the world shuns you for something you never wanted, but.

You don't spend your entire life hunting things that hurt people, without learning how to  _ care _ . You have to. You learn to care about life itself, about strangers who hate you and pelt rocks at you and want you dead, about your brothers and your horse and gwent and your lovers and your bard and--

He'd forgotten, for a while there. Which is fair, considering the hand he's been dealt. But he's been learning again, slow and sure. 

"Geralt," he says, after some consideration. 

"...what?"

"Call me Geralt," he says, voice still gravelly from his pretend-torture, "This Master Witcher business makes me feel old."

"You're probably older than the castle we're in," the boy replies, looking thrown, "And, er, call me Soren."

Geralt nods, and adds, "The jingly one's Asha, right? Didn't catch the little tosser's name."

Soren lets out a breathless wheeze of laughter, " _ Little tosser _ \---that's Dess, they're sorry about the shoe."

The boot is still where it had landed, by Geralt's leg. It's a nice boot; sturdy and well-worn. 

"...they?" says Geralt, who honestly couldn't tell, because they'd been cocooned in what looked like several cloaks. Which, he is beginning to realize, might be the point.

"Lost their gender in first year," Soren tells him, gravely, "Tragic loss. Also, does this mean we're your friends?"

"No," says Geralt, who is beginning to open his heart up to the whims of destiny, but not  _ quite  _ enough to befriend three adolescent mages without self-preservation. And then, before this line of query can go on any further, he adds, "You said you found something? While looking for my blood?"

"Oh, yeah," says Soren, face lighting up further. The inexplicable reminder of Jaskier that Geralt quashed immediately strengthens---actually, that's not quite right.

"We found  _ books,"  _ he breathes, looking gleeful, "written by your lot. Can't read them, obviously, good work on the codes, but we were wondering if you could help us out there?"

Now Geralt understands.

The niggling Jaskier-reminder, that is.

There was a tavern up north some years ago, a few days before they'd split for the winter. Jaskier had played a rowdy set that inexplicably closed off with a mournful song that got the whole house weeping, and then been accosted by an old friend of his. 

A sprightly bard, also an academic-- a friend from his Oxenfurt days apparently. Jaskier had scooped her up and called her little sister, tucking her fair hair behind her ears and doting on her like a mother hen. It was such a baffling change to his demeanor that Geralt allowed the two to set up camp in the room he and Jaskier shared, and watched as the little bard announced her reason for hunting Jaskier down:

_ "I'VE GOT ACCESS TO MASTER FAULK'S LIBRARY BECAUSE HE NEEDS HELP REORGANIZING,"  _ she'd screeched, "AND THERE ARE THESE _ ANCIENT _ ELVEN SCROLLS, JULIAN. I CAN'T READ THEM FOR SHITE--"

"Oh gods," Jaskier had breathed, looking awestruck, "Wait, how does he even have them? Is that legal?"

"Oh apparently he's half-elven--"

"Oh! This explains why he still looks about my age then--"

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT! I'M GOING TO NEED YOU TO COMB THROUGH THEM WITH ME."

"I... can't read elven either, Essi."

"WELL, WE'RE GOING TO LEARN. MASTER FAULK GAVE ME THESE, HE SAID IT'S WHAT HIS DAD USED TO TEACH HIM."

And Geralt, who didn't bother telling either of them that he knew elven and could likely teach them, watched in mild bemusement as they both ignored everything around them (including food and water) for three days, and came out the other side of it with a reasonable grasp of the language. Geralt took it upon himself to ensure that the two of them were fed and watered, and got little absent thank-yous and a distracted kiss on the cheek from the little bard for his troubles. 

Jaskier saw him off for the winter smudged in ink, sleep-deprived and giddy with delight, and met him in the spring much the same. He'd spent the whole of the season locked in that archive, apparently, and he would ride that wave of inspiration and glee till summer rolled around.

The skinny little sorcerer in front of him now, maybe a decade and a mountain later, looks  _ exactly _ like that. The same frantic academic delight. Geralt, against his will, finds himself endeared. 

(There is something comforting about this, this familiar love of learning. He will not examine it too closely, however, because he suspects that he will not like what he finds.)

"I'll write you a key," he says, at last, mouth tasting bittersweet, "And you can figure the language out from there. Then, tell me what books you have, and I'll tell you which ones I don't want you to touch. Touch those, and I'll kill you."

"Oh,  _ fuuuuuck _ ," Soren says, eyes wide and still very bloodshot, "I'll get Dess to drop off a pen and some paper tomorrow,  _ thankyousomuch _ \--"

Geralt hopes he won't regret this. But, looking at the way the boy is too excited to stop his hands trembling as he disenchants the guards, he can't quite bring himself to do so.

* * *

here is a secret:

The closest thing Geralt has to a father is Vesemir.

Vesemir is a good man, he thinks. He cares for Geralt and his brothers with all the devotion of a true father, and gruffly harangues them and judges them and ensures they don't die of their own idiocy the way a true father would. 

But Vesemir is also, inextricably, linked with the thing that made Geralt what he is. To be a Witcher is to be both a victim and to be complicit. An endless cycle---or so it was before the sacking. He and Eskel and Lambert never got the chance.

What a thing to mourn. What a tragedy, that boys won't be broken the way he was broken.

What sort of monster weeps for the death of other monsters? Even if those monsters loved you? Were your brothers and siblings and fathers? Even if some of those monsters were boys, children who never had a choice?

One night, deep into his cups, Vesemir had said, pensively, "I know it's cruel. And I mourn them all every day. But I'm glad there won't be more of us."

And Lambert, much deeper in his cups than anyone else, had laughed so hard and so long he vomited.

Geralt and Eskel had just sat there, unable to quite look anyone in the eye.

here is another:

To be a Witcher is to have a legacy so complicated that one can spend all of one's life untangling it without reaching the end. 

So Geralt never does. He hunts, and loves, and breaks, and marches the path he was given. 

Victim and complicit. It's a cycle that never quite ends. He and his brothers are free, but gods.  _ Gods _ , at what fucking cost.

Then.

Then, Ciri. 

What the  _ fuck _ was he supposed to do? He knows what happens when a child of surprise is given to a Witcher. It's a story as old as Witchers themselves, and he wants no fucking part in it. 

And so he turned away from Cintra (not that he could get back in, even if he wanted) and went back to his path. With a Jaskier attached. And a Yen. But it was still the path he'd walked for as long as he's been a Witcher.

Then, war. Cintra burned. Ciri,  _ again _ ; and he found, to his dizzying surprise that he wants to try. He doesn't quite know what he's trying, but--

But that's unfortunately cut short by his getting captured by Nilfgaard. It seems like Destiny is telling him something, he just has no idea what it is.

But he's learning, right? Or unlearning. Something like that.

He thinks that maybe he  _ can _ break this Witchers-old cycle, and it won't have to be because thousands of boys died before anyone had the chance to burn the human out of them. Maybe it's a choice he's making, and not just one more step on a well-worn path.

and another:

"This looks," says Dess, looking over the parchment they'd been handed with wide eyes, "like a nightmare. Are these little squiggles like vowels?"

They have just bribed Geralt with a single, very stale, honey-cake to get their boot back. This is particularly baffling because they could very easily have just grabbed it, considering Geralt is chained to a wall.

"Yes," says Geralt. He's eyeing the guards and counting down, because the spell to make them look away apparently lasts three minutes at a time.

"Excellent, I almost wish I were illiterate now," they say, chewing on the end of the piece of lead they'd given him to write with. Geralt, resigned to his fate, just kicks at them with his chained legs until they stop. Their teeth come away a bit stained anyway.

"Your time's running out, you can ask one more question," he says.

"Alright, do you think you can get your strength up enough to fight if we give you--hold on, I've got this noted down, we're trying to give you a bit of an advantage? Potions-wise? Also I  _ hate _ your physiology, your blood-work is a nightmare, I've read Mistress Fringilla's notes and--"

"Hm," says Geralt, as they inevitably get sidetracked. He also actually listens, with the patience of a man who travelled with Jaskier for several years.

If one were to deviate from the path set for them, this sure is a step in the right direction, he thinks. 

Not that he knows what  _ this _ even is. But it seems like something. 

and  _ another _ :

"---and  _ really,  _ is it magic if you don't need any magical skill to-- oh sweet Melitele, my spell's ending soon--"

Exactly  _ none _ of that was even a question, Geralt notes, as they frantically scramble out of the cell and down the hall. 

He  _ really _ misses Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming soon!! and I know I haven't replied to your lovely comments but I promise I read them all and cherish them very much. Each one sparks so much joy and thank you all so much for reading this story and sticking with it. It's very dear to me
> 
> also I'm sorry I'm not sticking very close to canon lore I'm a dumbass and also I'm vibing.
> 
> also ALSO: I'm planning on posting a little content about my ocs on here. That's been very much delayed due to Events but you'll have that to look forward to, in the future, hopefully. 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much! I love you 💕

**Author's Note:**

> wait this means I gotta figure out how to write yen shit fuck what have I done


End file.
